Paint Me Beautiful

protruding from her back, her ribs, her chest, a girl with sallow skin and weak hair whose eyes look disproportionately massive in her sunken face.
    I grab my phone and pull up an app for a cab, unable to sit still as I wait outside on the porch for my chariot to arrive. The rain falls in sheets, but I don't see it. I don't really see anything at all. I have tunnel vision in that moment and all I can see is a false world created out of my emotions and my wants rather than my needs. I hum a song under my breath and sway gently back and forth, unwittingly putting myself into a sleep trance that leaves me crumpled on my side by the time the cab arrives.
    The driver honks at me once, and I snap to, grabbing my clutch in one hand and racing through the rain in a sun dress and heels, never once thinking about grabbing a coat or an umbrella. The man in the front seat looks at me in the rearview mirror like I'm nuts, but I don't care about him. I sit on the dirty gray seats in silence with my hands folded in my lap and my purse by my side. It's getting harder and harder for me to focus on one thing for too long, so my thoughts are a jumbled mess. I chalk that up to excitement and don't think anything of it.
    I can't wait till my mom sees me on a cover at the grocery store. Maybe then, she and dad and Marlena will understand that I just did what I had to do. I made hard choices, but they were worth it. See, you really can do whatever you set your mind to.
    And then I switch gears.
    I hope Emmett isn't too angry about last night. I didn't mean to hurt him; I was just in a bad mood. When he gets home, I'll tell him the news and I'll apologize and then we can go out to eat to celebrate. I pause. Well, maybe I should wait till after the show to do that. If I get fitted for a dress and then can't squeeze into it anymore, Lianna isn't going to look the other way.
    I sit back and watch the buildings outside the window swirl by in whirls of color that I hardly even register. Here's the thing with my disorder because yes, I do have one despite what I might think: it happens fast. In my head, it's only been days since I stopped eating, but in reality, it's been months since I gave my body enough fuel to run properly. I am shutting down and fast. Starvation is not something that takes years to kill; it hits quickly and it hits hard. It has no remorse for its victims, especially not those who willingly take it on in the name of vanity.
    When we reach the agency, I am up and out of the cab only so long as it takes me to pay the driver, and I practically leap from the door and onto the curb. Water seeps into my expensive designer shoes, soaks into the dress and chills me to the bone, but I don't notice. All I can see are those glass double doors. They're like the gates to Heaven at this point, pulling me forward when nothing else can, when my body screams at me to just lay down and die.
    I reach out and grab the glass handle, pull it open, step inside.
    The bell in the back chimes and a group of heads turn to look at me.
    They're surrounding a girl who's as round as Marlena, curvy and busty and nothing like a model should be. They've got fabric and tape measures and pins and needles. And horrified looks on their faces. Terrified maybe is the word. Or alarmed. I look for Lianna in the crowd and don't find her. A moment later she appears from the back wearing a white gown and black boots with silver cranes. She's smiling and her face is vibrant with excitement, cheeks pink, lips full and outlined with a beautiful rust red color that suits her skin perfectly.
    When she sees me, she stops dead in her tracks, and her jaw drops.
    At first, I think she's excited about all the progress I've made.
    But then the silence stretches uncomfortably long and everybody, and I mean everybody, in that building is looking at me. From the model to the security guard, they've got these expressions of pity and disgust on their faces. How? Why? I wonder as I look at the round, plump girl again. How can I still not be good enough? Am I still too fat? Have I failed?
    “ Oh God, Claire,” Lianna says and then turns to her assistant, gesturing wildly with her hand. “Get the poor girl a blanket,” she snaps and then turns back to me, dark eyes full of alarm. “Claire … ” she says again, and I'm not sure whether I should be pleased that she recognizes me or upset at her reaction. Is this because I got the dress wet? Is that it? “Why don't you take a seat